


Merlin's Shop of Mystical Wonders

by SkadiofWinter



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadiofWinter/pseuds/SkadiofWinter
Summary: Arthur is leading a mundane and perfectly respectable life as a lawyer until one rainy day draws him into Merlin's antique shop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, the title is stolen from a neat little 90s movie I discovered when searching for shop name ideas. I haven't watched it but it sounds wonderfully bad.

Arthur eyed the bus shelter warily. Black spray paint on the glass alerted him that Bradley had been there and in one corner was a small refuse pile topped off with a questionable coloured liquid in a bottle. He didn't dare get close enough to read the timetable, instead running down the street and into the first shop he wasn't likely to see a client in.

A bell tinkled above the door when he entered, but there was no one at the counter opposite to see him. It was quiet, seemingly empty, and he didn't realise immediately that even the rain was silenced though it still streamed quickly down the windows. 

There was a coat stand to one side of him, silk top hat perched on the finial at the top but otherwise empty. Whether it was for customers he wasn't sure, as the rest of the space was filled to the brim and very clearly one of those dodgy looking antique shops you always saw on daytime television. Not that he was a frequent watcher of that. Only on Monday mornings sometimes when he was out of action thanks to one of Gwaine's big weekends. Or when one of the oddly cute dealers was appearing and he would set it to record ready to watch during dinner when he got home.

Whether it was a working coat stand or just for display he had to take his jacket off to keep from dripping water everywhere. And before he took another step he wiped his feet vigorously on the bristle mat at the door.

So he'd find the owner, explain about misplacing his mobile, use the phone here then call a cab and be on his way. Only it was rude to just come in and not even look around. He might be the only customer to have come in all day...all week even.

It was mostly bulky wooden furniture around the door, which channelled off into a few different weaving aisles in the square room.

Barely two feet in his foot clanked against the foot of a heavy metal cauldron. Inside it was full of tatty old toys. Watching his feet more carefully he went down the left side. There were ten frame deep stacks of paintings, the walls instead covered with deer heads and peeling sixties woodchip wallpaper. That he knew from the dull homes and design shows on television that he also never watched.

Everything looked clean enough, but the old feeling of everything...that it had probably come out of some recently deceased Grandad's house gave him the shivers and as soon as he got home a scrub in the shower would be in order.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

He all but jumped out of his skin. The boy greeting him, barely out of high school by the looks of it, had the crazed grin of an over eager shop clerk.

"You shouldn't creep up on people like that, they might drop something."

"You break it you pay for it," the boy winked, pointing to a sign by the door. '"So, can I help?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Arthur frowned.

The boy shrugged, but sat behind the counter now and it was impossible to look properly knowing he'd be observed. Not that he'd been looking properly to begin with. He frowned at a ratty piece of leather hanging off a...the thing that blew air on the fire in the olden days. What was it now. They were always looking at them on Bargain Hunt...Christ, he needed his phone to google it.

The boy's indulgent smile was boring into the side of his head.

"Very popular at the moment, bellows. Nice decorative items, though that one's a bit of a project."

Bellows, he knew that. But it was putting it lightly. The project should have been taking it to the tip. The upcycling programmes weren't his favourite.

"I've never really been in an antique shop before."

In an instant he was being corralled further towards the counter.

"All the finer things are kept here. Not necessarily the best things, you have to dig around for those and I don't think you're ready for that yet."

All the while the boy had been putting a small display together on top of the counter. Letter opener in the shape of a sword, chintzy mantel clock, and one or two rings.

'This,' he said, sliding a silk tie off a rack. "Compliments your skin tone."

There were matching cufflinks too, elegantly displayed in a blue box on the wall.

"Victorian, silver. Very similar to ones King George V wore."

He was dazzled, and soon watching them be quite amateurishly gift wrapped. Well, it wouldn't matter when they were for himself. After the day he'd had he deserved to splurge a little. He couldn't think of the last time he'd bought something that wasn't a necessity.

He was on his way towards the door before remembering why he'd entered in the first place.

"Oh, there's no chance I might use your phone, is there? I'm running late for something and should probably let them know."

It was a stupid lie. And pointless. He'd only come to the stupid, out of the way little village to collect an old woman's will.

She'd left it all to charity. He wasn't looking forward to the battle that would ensue with the many children and grandchildren once she offed it and they found they'd been overlooked for the donkey sanctuary.

"It's not standard policy," the boy said, cutting through his thoughts. "You could be a jewel thief."

Arthur frowned again.

"But I suppose this once, and keep your hands where I can see them."

He was let round behind the counter where a grubby, once cream phone sat, cable spiralling down limply. He hadn't really thought this through. He didn't even know the address and his cheeks went hot as he had to ask, finishing the call and hoping to get out as quickly as possible. The boy looked nonplussed.

"There's a bus stop just outside, it's much cheaper."

"I don't like buses," he said diplomatically.

"And there's a payphone at the end of the street."

Payphones were even more unsavory than buses.

"And do you know they don't take change anymore? You can only pay by card and I'm not putting mine in some dodgy machine. I don't know whose bloody idea that was but...but..."

The shopkeeper was laughing at him.

"You're very British, that's all," he explained, hardly chastened by Arthur's increasing annoyance, misty blue eyes crinkling with continued pleasure.

That may well be true. Still. If the boy didn't like it he should go back to Ireland, or wherever he came from. Of course he wasn't going to say something so childish. And rude. He just wouldn't give his patronage to the shop ever again.

"At least let me offer you an umbrella."

"I'll only have to go outside the door, it's not worth the hassle."

"The weather's worse than it looks. I insist. Consider it a free gift that comes with your purchase."

He was quick to give in, though only out of desire to be gone. Then the boy brought out a blue umbrella covered in bright yellow stars. There was no chance in Hell he would be seen holding that above his head in Kensington.

"Is it...American?" he ventured.

"Primark. All the antiques are for decoration really, not to mention they're bloody huge."

"Right," he mumbled, taking it with quick thanks and dawdling for a while fiddling with the catch until he was reminded of his coat. After taking his time with the buttons he thankfully saw the bright light of the taxi pulling up outside. The boy's request of 'do call again' was almost drowned out as he opened the door and was hit with a soggy gale. The warm engine of the car was a relief and after a curt answer of where he was going ignored the driver and took one last glance at the shop before they drove off. It was mostly cluttered window with a plain brown door. He couldn't even see a sign.

The whole village was in the Jurassic age. No tech shops, no taxi rank, not even a Greggs. The train station only had two platforms with the next train not due for hours and he couldn't have wasted all day there. He glared at the car window, watching racing drops of rain. The miserable weather made him fidget. The bag on his lap nearly spilled onto the floor at a nasty roundabout and he cursed, moving it into the next seat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shopped. His grocery delivery was set for the same items and time slot every week and his PA along with his sister kept all the other essentials covered. They both loved shopping. If you could call it that. Being coerced was more accurate. He gazed at the bag in awe for the entire ride home. Bloody salesmen.

He dumped everything by the door when he got in and had forgotten about it until making his way out to work the next day. The end of the tie flap was poking out the end of the bag. Arthur took off the old but serviceable st michaels he was wearing and quickly put on the new one before running down to his taxi.

He got to work early, all the lights having stayed green, not that Arthur had noticed. There was a steaming coffee on his desk and a neatly stacked pile of papers for once. Everyone had had something nice to say to him. Been considerate. Even Lance, their intern, hadn't gotten on his nerves. He certainly wasn't going to put it down to a new tie, but...these weren't common things for his profession.


	2. Chapter 2

"Welcome back."

Two weeks later, on a much brighter Thursday afternoon, and the boy was sat behind the counter with a chess set in front of him.

"Playing by yourself?"

"It passes the time," the boy answered, tapping his temple with two fingers. "Keeps the old noggin alert."

Arthur only had a vague memory of how the game worked.

He'd been a master, years ago. One boring Summer when he was young and he and Morgana had yet to make any decent friends. They had spent every afternoon playing. Competing. It was one of the rare times they'd really gotten on, although the end was never particularly friendly. He had won, in the end. One hundred and twelve games to a hundred and ten. Morgana had split the board in half and that had been the end of that. The next year he'd met Leon, and chess wasn't something the cool kids played.

Eyeing the pieces as he approached he sorted out their names in his head then moved the white bishop.

"Diagonal, right?"

The boy nodded, and as soon as the piece was set in its new spot knocked it down with a pawn.

"I'm a little rusty," he murmured.

It fell silent, the boy's gaze lowered to pouting lips waiting to see if he'd make another move. He didn't. And he wasn't going to sulk over a stupid game.

"I don't mean to be rude," Arthur started in preparation for his comment. "But shouldn't you be at school?"

The boy's pasty cheeks flamed right up to tips of his ears.

"Don't worry, I won't tell," he carried on. "I wanted your opinion, actually. I have a dear friend's birthday coming up and I normally...presents aren't my thing. She likes beautiful, expensive pieces. But I don't want her to think I tried too hard."

He normally had an assistant buy the gift, but Morgana now had more diamonds and perfume bottles than the Queen of England. And as thirty drew ever closer he knew she was dreading it. Something nice would cheer her up for a little while.

"If you can tell me more about her nothing beats the perfect book, but if you're after something a little flashy jewellery is the obvious choice."

"No, nothing like that," Arthur frowned. Lawyers didn't have time for leisure reading. "She likes women."

The boy's eyebrows raised but he didn't skip a beat. "Well, we do have an antique glass phallus. Decorative. Sculptural. It has it's own beauty, you know?"

"Err, no," Arthur said quickly, eyes widening and for the remainder of the visit he tried not to look in any of the higher cabinets where such a thing might reside, should it exist. What was this boy getting his friends for gifts? But then to be here...perhaps he didn't have any.

"She's my sister, didn't I mention?," he continued, voice growing increasingly hoarse. "Not a blood sister. I mean...she does like women, in that sense. And men. Anyone. But she knows a lot about old women. Joan of Arc. She likes Joan of Arc."

He needed a glass of water. Or a bucket full to stick his head in. This had been a terrible idea. He should have gone to Ernest Jones and got her an ugly pendant shaped like a teddy bear, the word 'sis' emblazoned on a heart it held.

 

 

She was speechless. 

"I didn't know you cared," Morgana said, examining herself in the pocket mirror's reflection. The reverse was silver and depicted Saint Joan on her horse. It was hallmarked from France. The boy had shown him through the eyeglass the small symbol of the goddess Minerva hidden under the horse's flank, faded from decades of being picked up and rubbed for luck or faith.

"And you didn't think I listened," he grinned, pecking her on the cheek.

"Or you're just telling me you'd like me burnt at the stake."

"Only when you're defending the wrong side."

"The winning side?" she smirked. "Oh, Arthur. If you stopped wanting to be the hero for once you could have these big cases as well."

"I see no pleasure in defending guilty people."

Morgana rolled her eyes. Of course she had no such scruples. Didn't seem to care about any of the people in her cases, actually. She liked the challenge and she loved winning when the odds had been stacked against her. And so he couldn't hate her for that. She was brilliant at her job.

He told her so after...he'd been through a few drinks. They were sat on the floor under the pool table in the bar they'd gone to, chuckling and thinking themselves invisible.

"I'd have defended Saint Joan," he smiled.

"She needed a knight, not a lawyer."

"King Arthur, of the round table," he said, banging his fist on the underside of the wood and causing a ruckus with their friends playing above as a red was inadvertently potted. "With a bevvy of knights."

Morgana snorted. Elegantly. Intoxication didn't lessen the poise of her appearance.

"And a troublesome fairy. You're witchy looking."

It was good her glass was empty or it might have stained his shirt. Leon, after finding them hurling increasingly bizarre insults at each other brought them water and they toasted to her.

When he woke the next morning he had a pretty good idea of what a burning at the stake might have felt like.


End file.
